The Origins of a Man
by Trollki
Summary: If there's ever a story remembering now and later, it's the tale of Sweet Tooth, Gotham's sweetest villain. - Or, Trollki writes a candy corny Holy Musical B@man fanfic - Starkids beware, you're in for scary-bad puns.


_**AN:**_ I know I should probably put trigger warnings on this…but I don't know where to start. The triggering content is kind of up to interpretation in a way. Also, this story sucks and makes no sense, but I reserve the right to suck at writing. However, I do apologize for the bad (and re-use of) puns and alliteration. That being said, enjoy this crazy, random, short, throw-everything-that-sounds-like-a-good-idea-in fanfic about a villain from a Starkid's Holy Musical, Btman!:

* * *

He doesn't remember his parents. He doesn't remember his name. Sure, he's signed documents as "Henry Werther" from time-to-time, but that name was as legitimate as the semi-permanent cotton-candy blue tint of his hair. He liked to think of himself as more than just an accident of birth and a doctor's scribbles on an invalid birth certificate.

He thinks he might have had a brother, but that could have just been Fudged memories of early 1990's commercials.

Most of the adults he associated with growing up an orphan were the worst sort of Flakes. Even Sweet Marie who ran one of Gotham's many orphanages would leave him for the illustrious Father Reese. Her betrayal made infinitely worse when she abandoned the orphanage for the Father and her own Chunky little demon spawn born out of wedlock. However, the betrayal that was the nastiest Crunch to his spirit came from an author. He remembers barely fleeing a Borders Book Store with his Fingers on a pilfered copy of the latest addition to the Harry Potter Series. The memory of how heightened his breath was, and how his pudgy digits clenched the book's pristine corners still turns his legs to Jello. When he delved into the world of Harry Potter, he wanted to hurt J.K. Rowling. She created a beautiful and perfect world that he could never be a part of – and he could never forgive her for that.

He wouldn't say so himself, but Harry Potter and the Orphanage were probably the two main reasons he failed to understand why others obsessed so much over fitting in. He wanted to be like Nymphadora or Lord Voldemort– someone who stood out even amongst the best, the most famous, the brightest, and the most talented. He vowed to himself that he would never to be forgotten again. To him, those who sought normality, were vile, vapid, and sycophantic zombies destined to be nothing more than a thoroughly-chewed Extra, blanched of colour, and stuck to the underfoot of Gotham City. He needed to stand out lest he be spat out into the oblivion of forgotten alleyways, never to be remembered. He needed to create an image for himself. Something so unassuming, people would misread him as harmless. Something children would look up to until they realized otherwise. He needed an cull the perfect image for himself.

Later when he would resort to Boosting cars to thrive on the decaying streets of Gotham, he wouldn't really notice that the vehicles he stole all shared a similar hue: a cotton-candy to robin's egg blue as described on a famous Ford Angelina. He also wouldn't notice how it was the same color he applied to his hair every six weeks.

The first time he used a candy pun would not reflect the complete Almond Joy he would find in them later. He had been rereading about Harry's first experiences with the Hogwarts Express and Platform 9 ¾'s. As he was enraptured once more by the words before him, a group of young male hoodlums decided he was the perfect target for adolescent one-upmanship. At first, he ignored them. They were nothing more than the dredge of the underground. And because he paid them no attention, he never noticed when they surrounded him. He remembers the tears that stung his eyes and threated to erupt when they wretched from his fingertips what belonged to him. He remembers pitifully trying to lash out against his torments, to defend himself. He called them names. He told them that they were "Licorice Wanded Eunuchs". Sure, it wasn't his best candy pun, but it was his first. And when he was finally discarded for something more entertaining, bloodied and glassy-eyed, he swore to himself that he would never defile anything that J.K. Rowling used in her books. To him, they were perfection, and he was liter left abandoned on forgotten, dimly-lit streets with no right to touch such holy texts. He swore from then on that he would be the tormenter and not the tormented. He made up his mind. He would become that which seems utterly harmless at first. He would be something that you would give into at first, before you realized how destructive he could be.

He swore that one day, there would come a time when only the most naïve individuals would Wispa his name:

Sweet Tooth.


End file.
